Fallen
by violet lily13
Summary: A continuation of Afterglow. Two broken minds. Two shattered souls. Two histories filled with pain and horror. Too many reasons why they should never be together. SnapeHermione


**Fallen**  
_a continuation of "Afterglow"_

_  
I watched him fall. As the light faded, I saw his body bend over the parapet. It was similar to watching an acrobat at the circus. I went to a circus long ago, but I did not understand then. Even after my first task for the Dark Lord, I did not understand. Now I do._

_The old man is gone._

_As if in a dream, I flee down the tower stairs, away from the impossible silence, the blank stares of my so-called allies, and the silvery shadow in the corner. I knew that the old man would not be there alone. In his weakened state, he could not have reached the tower without assistance. It is for the best that my deed was witnessed. It is the only way to stop all the madness. The boy and the rest of them would vow vengeance against me, but I would be unreachable. They did not understand how things really stood. They saw the war in black and white when it was all grey. _

_Perhaps the Dark Lord is right. Perhaps there is no good and evil. Only those who seek power and would do anything to attain it. _

_There had been a time when all I desired was power, but at this point, as I aimed my wand at the old man's heart, all I wanted was to be far away. Far away from the old man and his manipulative ways. Far away from the Dark Lord's impossible reach. Far away from the cold that had settled within my very being, blocking out all but the darkest of spirits. I was no longer myself. _

_I had never known who "myself" was. _

_Flashes of light is all I see as I continue to run. I need to get away, but I can never escape. The boy follows, throwing spells like a child throws stones at a homeless mutt. He is angry; his temper is just like his mother's. Perhaps he is more like her than his appearance would suggest, but I must forget the boy. He no longer matters to me. I played my role in his quest; now he is on his own. There will be no old man to guide his path. He will have to blunder about, searching for the correct path. But I do not care if he fails or succeeds. Either way, I will be damned forever._

* * *

He could hear the rain falling on the rooftop. It dripped into the drainpipe on the other side of the wall, a constant nagging presence that had woken him from the dream, or was it a memory? His dreams had been plagued with the memories of his past, the things he had done to survive. No, it was not about survival. He had only wanted to escape. If Death had approached him, he would have grabbed the spectre's hand with relief. Only in death could he truly escape the pain and bitterness that was his life.

His bed was warmer than usual. He noted his fact and reached his hand out to investigate. It would not be wide enough for him to move very much, not if his suspicions were correct. His hand brushed against bare skin that was too smooth to be his. The figure beside him stirred and muttered something unintelligible. He slid his hand downward over skin and blanket, wondering just how it had all happened. A single glass of Firewhiskey was certainly not enough to make his mind forget a whole evening. If it was, most of the population would be amnesiacs.

Dull light from the street lamps fell across the floorboards, but the figure beside him was shrouded in darkness. It was as though she had, simply by being with him, taken on some of his burden. Then he shook his head. No, she had a large enough burden of her own to carry. Hers was not so filled with destruction and murder, but it still contained much suffering. Even the innocent were blemished by the aftermath. They, too, were among the fallen.

As the grasp of sleep loosened its hold on his consciousness, the memories of the previous evening returned. He had brought her to this room, her eyes stained with tears and raindrops alike. He had, at first, hesitated. She was in a weakened state, almost as helpless as a child...

He should not think of her that way. Indeed, it was entirely incorrect to view her in such a way. The person beside him was very much a woman: that much he could remember quite clearly from the events of only a few hours before. A smile crossed his face as he remembered. His hand glided down her arm and she stirred once again, causing the blanket to slip further down her body. He could see her outline against the faint light from the window. Curved, yet not voluptuous. He would have never wanted a woman with nothing but beauty. A mind was also needed to fill the empty hours between sleep and ...other activities.

"What time is it?" she mumbled, reaching for the blanket.

"I regret that I do not know." He continued the motion of his hand beyond her arm.

She pushed his hand away. "Could you at least venture a guess?"

He reached instead to caress the back of her neck. "It is difficult to tell because of the rain."

"So it could already be midday, you're saying?" Her breath was coming in shorter gasps.

"Does it really matter?" His lips brushed against the skin below her ear.

She turned her head to look at him. "You're different from what I remember."

He swallowed and looked away, but she reached out to touch his cheek, forcing him to meet her eyes. Her hair curled over one shoulder, but he could not see her face. He was in the unfortunate position of having his own face visible while hers was in complete shadow.

"How can you be sure that I was not always like this?" His skin burned where she touched him. He recalled the warmth of her body as he had held her close not long before. She had whispered his name as their hands and lips roamed over every inch of skin the other had to offer. The sound of his own name from her mouth had made his mind burn as much as his body did at her touch. They had found something in the other that neither had ever known. It was the sort of something that was found once, then it would disappear forever.

She smiled, at least, he imagined that she did. "Too bad I didn't notice sooner, then."

He was about to reach for her hand to bring it to his lips, but something stopped him. He could still see the flash of green light emitting from his wand as the old man tumbled over the edge of the Astronomy Tower. For the rest of his life he would never escape that vision, those horrible memories of the things that he did to survive in a world not worth the trouble. Those memories, his past, would always stand between him and the world, between him and her. He pulled away from her touch. He was not deserving of it, of her, of anything that had transpired in this room.

Kicking away the blanket, he rose from the bed and grabbed his robes from the floor.

"We should not have done this."

He dressed quickly in the dark. If he turned the light on, he would have to see the expression on her face. "I took advantage of you in a moment of weakness. Forgive me."

He turned to leave the room, his fingers fumbling with the buttons on his robe.

Before he could reach the door, however, it slammed shut and locked itself. He did not need to turn around to know that she was directly behind him, wand in hand. She had not bothered to put on any of the clothing strewn about the room.

"I'm not going to let you go," she said, her voice barely audible over the rain. "You can't just leave. Not now. Not after what's happened."

He clenched his fists. "You do not understand, Miss Granger."

The point of her wand rested between his shoulder blades.

"Perhaps, then, you could illuminate me."

_And so much more..._ He yearned to turn around, to see her standing before him, but he did not dare. He had to at least try and maintain some command of himself. His mind could only control his body to a certain point; after that, he would lose himself once again.

"I am a murderer. A traitor. You have seen what I've done, Miss Granger. You know very well what sort of person I am."

"Yet you saved my life, or did you only do that out of penance?"

He flinched at her words. "If I cared any less, I would say that it was a momentary lapse in judgement." The sharpness in his own voice surprised him.

The point of the wand was removed from his back. "I deserved that, didn't I?"

The old scowl appeared on his face as he readied himself to make the final blow. "Indeed, I could even say that last night I only took you in because you were so pathetically irresistible. The perfect way of obtaining pleasure without having to pay, would you not agree?"

At once he was thrown against the door. Whether she did it with the strength of her anger or with her magic, he was not sure. Either way, he could feel her body pressing up against his back, her wand pressing into his neck. It was, perhaps, the most exquisite position he had ever found himself in. It certainly did nothing to strengthen his position with her.

"Are you going to kill me, Miss Granger?"

"Would you like me to?" She leaned in closer, one leg slipping between his.

"It depends how you choose to do it." His breath came in ragged gasps.

"Why don't we make a deal." Her voice lowered, taking on an almost-seductive tone. Her free hand rested itself upon his waist.

He remembered the way that the same hand had brushed against his cheek.

"I suppose that I do not have a choice."

The point of the wand was pushed harder against his neck. "I'm not afraid of using an Unforgivable, even on you."

He snorted. "You would only be putting an old man out of his misery." _An old man. _Not the best choice of phrase in the circumstances.

Her hand lowered to his thigh. "Misery? You didn't seem at all miserable last night. I could swear that you were quite happy at the time."

He would not be able to bear this for much longer. The sound of her voice whispering in his ear, the feeling of her breasts pressed against his back, the movement of her hand against his body: it would send him into madness if he did nothing to end it. In a swift movement, he swept out of her grasp and took hold of her wand, hiding it in the folds of his robes. It was far easier to speak seriously with a woman when she wasn't pointing a wand in his face, or in this case against his neck.

The light from the window now fell upon her, shining against the perspiration on her skin. Her hair was not quite long enough to cover her breasts, but all the same it fell over her shoulders in long brown curls. He made it obvious that he was staring at her body, folding his hands in front of his chest and taking her in with his eyes. Even in the night, he had not seen all of her. He had been distracted by ... other things.

She, of course, flushed from head to toe, only adding to her prettiness.

Emitting a sound similar to a growl, he reached down to pick up her robes. He tossed the robes at her, hating himself for admitting that he thought her anything more than a normal witch.

"Get dressed. We cannot expect to have rational discussion with you looking like that."

She held the robes in her hand, her eyes glaring daggers. With a twitch of his lips, he flicked on the lamp in one corner and settled before the window to supposedly gaze upon the brick wall of the next set of flats. The leaded panes of glass skewed her reflection, but the image was acceptable. The way that she moved whist bending down to retrieve all her clothes was more than enough to satisfy him. When she looked up, he appropriately removed a cigarette from his robes, making it appear as though he had only glanced at her by accident.

From another pocket, he removed a wand and pointed it at the end of the cigarette. The resultant violet sparks were far more effective than any lighter.

"That's my wand, by the way." Now it was her turn to cross her arms.

He took a deep drag of the cigarette and handed her the wand.

"You're the first wizard I've seen with one of those. Most people think them a disgusting muggle invention." The wand disappeared into the folds of her robes and she retreated to sit on the still-unmade bed.

"Remember that I am half-muggle." The words sounded more like a growl.

"And I'm muggleborn."

The smoke caught in his throat and he began to cough. She rose from the bed, looking anxious, but he waved her away. "How could I forget?"he finally managed to ask.

She smoothed out the bedclothes before retaking her seat.

He leaned against the window frame, the cigarette hanging from his fingers. "Tell me, Miss Granger. Have you had any contact with muggles since the deaths of your parents?"

"Does it look like I've had contact with many people since the war?" Her voice was becoming querulous.

A piece of smouldering ash fell to the floor. He extinguished the sparks under his boot.

"Perhaps because you were obsessed with finding your saviour?" Such a question could send her to the breaking point once more, but he took the risk. He enjoyed it when she was angry.

Her eyes flashed, meeting his in the reflection of the glass. "I was mourning the death of the saviour of our world. Harry Potter."

The very sound of the boy's name made him shudder. In a single, fluid movement, he dashed out the cigarette and ground out the embers with his boot.

"I must admit that you are right. They are a disgusting muggle invention." 

* * *

_Why am I always running? From my past, from my enemies, from my supposed allies, from the everything. All my life I run away to hide in the shadows where no one can find me. It all started when I was very young, but I would rather not think about that time, or of the reasons why I ran back then. As with now, it was to escape that which I could not face, or did not dare to. Often it was the only way to save myself from harm. Mostly it was to save myself from Him. _

_But now I run for a completely different reason. Yes, it is true that I still am still running away from something, but this time, I am not alone. She follows, stumbling along behind me as though she is sleepwalking. I think that it is the shock of battle. She is far too young to have experienced such things, just as I once was. _

_I turn to see that she is alright. Dried blood stains her clothes, but I cannot see any wounds upon her. The blood mixes with the mud that covered the battlefield. Her hands shake; her eyes are bloodshot. I wonder when she last slept, probably not very much in the past week. Her feet drag against the path, kicking the stones as she walks along. She shivers even though the rising sun throws its light down upon her. Soon she will not be able to continue. _

_Why had I done it? She had slipped in the mud, ready to give up. She was going to welcome death, not fearlessly, as one may expect of her kind, but with an acquiescence that few others could muster. Yet I prevented it. I killed an ally to save one who should have been an enemy, one who regarded me as a traitor, a murderer. _

_...I watched her fall..._

_Of course I feel guilt for what I did to the old man, but to repay that action in such a way as this was madness. That crime had been planned by fate and greater powers; this act of kindness was entirely of my own making, and entirely irrational. _

_I stop in mid-step and she crashes into me. Before she falls, I reach out to steady her. She looks pitiful. This is not the same girl as the one who constantly challenged me and was a most annoying know-it-all. The battle has killed part of her, just as it has killed a part of everyone involved, but with her the wound is far deeper. It has been many years since I have seen someone in such a state. The last..._

_Yes, the last. Another of my sins that cannot be forgiven._

_I can still see his face as it faced me just before I killed him. I had no choice then as I did with the old man. It was either kill or be killed, and I refused to die. For a moment, as his grey eyes stared up into mine, all I could feel was hatred for his brother, the one who had tormented me for too long. To kill this wizard was to kill his brother, and thus I obtained my revenge._

_The girl in my arms stirs, and only now do I realise how long I have been holding her. It has not been more than a moment, yet it seems as though time has stopped. She moves closer, but I pull away. This closeness is too strange, too alien, for me to understand. She shivers once again, and I am reminded of the cool morning breeze. It no longer reeks of mud and death, there is a certain fresh tang to it that is full of life, of rebirth. I place my cloak upon her shoulders and tell her some platitude or another. _

_I pity her. _

_It should be a disgusting thought to me. Pity for a friend of that silly boy who was supposed to save us all, how ridiculous? _

_She follows me blindly, entirely helpless, entirely within my power. _

_She owes her life to me. It is no small wonder that I pity her._

* * *

"So that's it? That's everything you've done?" He could feel her eyes boring into his spine as she spoke. The last thing he wanted to do was meet her eyes.

"Do not belittle my sins. Now you know why I hurried away from you in the street, why I could not bear to have you see who I was."

She did not reply right away. The seconds ticked past as he waited for something, anything that would pronounce her judgement of him. His hands were clenched upon the window frame; his face grimaced as he pressed his forehead against the cold glass. The rain continued to pour down, drenching the streets and all that dared to venture out-of-doors.

"Are you Catholic, Severus?"

The question was not what he had been expecting. He thought of answering with a sarcastic retort, as she may have expected him to, but he hesitated. It had been a morning of hesitation after an all-too-short night of impetuousness.

"My father was." His voice was hardly above a whisper.

"So you learned from him the proper way to confess."

He wished that he had another cigarette. "Yes."

"Why did you choose me as your confessor, then? Surely a priest–"

He turned his head, eyes burning with anger. "Would a priest have understood? Would he not have called the police or, worse, the Aurors? In case you have forgotten, I am a murderer."

The bedsprings creaked as she stood. "You did what you had to do."

"That is what I always told myself."

He met her gaze. There was no pity her in eyes, thank Merlin, but no hatred either. The only emotions upon her face were worry and something else, something he feared above all else.

"Thank you for trusting me." She came up beside him, keeping empty space between them.

His laughter was filled with the old bitterness. The memories of the previous night were fleeing from his cooling heart. She could have been a stranger and he would have spoken the same words, felt the same way. At least that is what he wanted to believe.

"What sort of silly remark is that? Trust? Do you think that's what it was?" He glanced in her direction, wanting to see the pain in her eyes. He wanted to hurt her, to watch her suffer as he was every moment she remained in that room.

She did not look at him. Her eyes remained fixed on the brick wall across the street.

"You cannot forget what happened between us, Severus. I won't leave this place until you realise that I–" She stopped in mid-sentence, unable to say the words allowed.

He said nothing, nor showed any sign of having heard her.

"When you held my hand three years ago, something happened, something that I can't describe or hope to explain." She rushed on, her hands shaking. "That short moment changed everything in a way you can't understand. Ron–" She paused on his name, as though unfamiliar with it. "Ron hated me for not being there, but I couldn't go back to him, not until it was too late. I was afraid that he'd ask, that he'd know what happened, that you saved me..."

"Enough," he growled. "I do not need to hear your pathetic story, Miss Granger. It would be better if you just left."

"Why this change?" She asked it as though she were thinking aloud. "What is it about me that has scared you so much? You only hate when you're frightened."

It was certainly an interesting interpretation of his psyche, but, nonetheless, one that was unwelcome. This was the precise reason he had not poured out his troubles to a psychologist, as an American wizard may have done. The last thing he needed was for someone to tell him why he was the way he was, why his soul bubbled over with so much hate and bitter feeling.

He turned his face away from her, but she moved between him and the window. The cloth of their robes touched.

"You must have a short memory if you can't remember all the things you whispered in the darkness. All those words had something behind them, something that's still there. I can sense it in you. Severus–"

She reached up on the tips of her toes and brushed her lips across his. Both his mind and body told him to respond, told him that he felt more for this witch than he had anyone else, living or dead. Yet he managed to cling to the small part that resisted. He was able to keep control, but only just. His mind showed him memories, his body remembered each movement, each touch. His resistance showed him all the pain he had caused, all the life he had taken. He had taken her heart, and therefore her life. She was his for the taking, but she was the last thing he wanted, the last thing he needed.

But her kiss was so... so soft, so gentle, so filled with truth and beauty. With her, he could start over, find all that he had lost and never had. He could be, for the first time, happy. He had felt the smallest inkling of it only hours before, the smallest touch of beauty upon a life so scarred and ugly and sinful.

His hand touched her arm, her shoulder, her cheek. He entangled it within her hair, pulling her closer to deepen the kiss. He wanted to drink in her passion, her love, her life. He did not desire her as he had the previous night. He did not want to feel her body surrounding him, to hear her call out his name, to taste her skin. No, his base humanity had been satisfied, and now she was something different to him. She was a rock in a churning ocean, a distant light in the darkness, a hand to pull him from the deepest hole of his guilt.

The last thing he would do was admit such a thought.

He broke away from her lips with some reluctance and stood there, speechless, his eyes unsure where to rest. He could not bear to look upon her face, yet it did not seem right to gaze blindly out the window at the tedious grey landscape. The light was increasing, but the wounds still remained.

She sighed and he knew that she had felt the closure in that kiss, the sense of something coming to a painful and hopeless end.

"So this is it?" Her breath was warm against his throat.

He loosened his hand from her hair. "It must be."

"Why?" Of course she had to ask that. She was Hermione Granger, was she not?

Letting out a ragged breath, he stepped away from her. "There are too many reasons."

"What is there to stop us?"

She had always known exactly what question to ask at precisely the right time. Perhaps that he was why he ... why she had to leave.

"Everything." He walked over to the lamp and flicked off the light. Through the dissipating clouds, the sun was just beginning to filter down onto the cold, wet ground, illuminating all that had fallen overnight.

More had fallen than just the rain.

She looked at the floor. "It's time for me to go."

"Yes, before it is too late."

She snorted with disbelief. "For you, or for me?"

A smile pulled at the corner of his mouth. "For both of us."

Looking up at him, she raised an eyebrow, but said nothing. Even if she thought that she knew the meaning of his words, she would not be able to grasp the meaning behind them.

She reached down to pick up her handbag and brushed some dust from her robes. At the door, she hesitated. "Should I say good-bye?"

He stood by the bed, staring down at the dishevelled bedclothes. "That is your decision."

Although he was not looking at her, he could feel her gaze upon him. He supposed that it was an earnest gaze, one that was questioning and assured all at once. A moment later, he could hear her footsteps in the hall, then on the stair. He still had the time to stop her, to make her return to where she ought to have belonged, to change his mind and apologise for being such a foolish, wicked git. Yes, he could follow her as she had followed him, unwilling to give up the only thing in the world that gave him a reason for living.

He went back to the window, waiting for when she would emerge onto the pavement. He did not have to wait long. She walked with confidence and strength, just like the girl she had so long ago been. She did not look up at the window. He did not expect her to.


End file.
